Delicate Hands
by GossamerCorset
Summary: Hands were not meant to be delicate, no. To Bill, hands were strong, rough, and resilient enough to pull through a fight with Fenrir Greyback. Yet, there was something about Fleur's delicate hands that always had that magic wands alone did not possess - magic which he could never resist. Written for the Houses Competition / Slytherin / Round 9 / Themed.


Written for the Houses Competition, representing Slytherin House, sit-in for Prefect 2.

Category: Themed

Prompt: Delicate Hands

Words: 2,185

All characters in the wonderful Harry Potter world were created and are owned by JK Rowling. I do not claim any ownership over any of them.

o

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It wasn't her dark blue eyes that pierced through even the most guarded of men that caught his attention. Nor was it her willowy blonde hair that softly swayed in the wind carrying the scent of peonies, or how her English was as bad as Ron's O.W.L results. It was her hands: delicate, soft, as if she had never done a hard day's work in her whole life. Yet, she was once one of the Triwizard Champions who put a Welsh Green dragon into a sleeping trance to retrieve a golden egg and would've given her life to recover her sister from the Black Lake even when the Grindylows attacked her.

It was not as though he had a fetish for hands, no. Bill Weasley was a Curse-Breaker and to him, hands were only good to weave spells for removing, countering and breaking curses. Hands were not meant to be delicate, no. To him, hands were strong, rough, and resilient enough to pull through a fight with Fenrir Greyback. So, when he first met her at Gringotts when he came back from Egypt with a bag of treasures that brought a wide grin to the bank goblins, he saw the state of her hands and wondered how someone with such small, perfectly sculpted hands could have such panache.

Most times, he has trouble understanding what she means to say, so he just nods away and smiles at her, initially keeping any conversation to a minimum. At first, he tries to stay away from her, keeping his cool – well, he had a reputation to uphold, didn't he? With that long red hair tied into a low, loose ponytail, that one fang earring dangling from his ear and that dragon hide boots. Bill Weasley did not play smitten. Perhaps that was why Fleur Delacour carried on with pursuing him. She was used to men falling for her every charm and so was quite taken aback when Bill did not. She thought that he must be under some kind of spell since he avoided her at every turn but really the truth of the matter was that it was those bloody, damn, beautiful, delicate hands that he tried to stay away from.

He still could not make sense of it, when he first heard her speak her thoughts out loud as she argued with a goblin in the bank. Really, who in their right minds argues with goblins? He remembered how every word she uttered carried a heavy, authoritative tone to it, and how the soft expression she always wore had turned into a menacing look. He remembered how she swore frustratingly in French to the dumbfounded goblin. Yet, her hands, like water lilies floating softly on a pond, even as she waved them about and pointed her slender finger in a threatening way at the goblin, those gestures with _those_ hands almost made it look like she was _dancing._

One day, when she came by his desk and asked him if he would like to have dinner with her, he had wanted to tell her a stern no. At the same time, she had put her hand on his shoulder which took him by surprise and in effect, he instantly changed his answer to a _yes_. He wonders sometimes, why she would even need a wand since those hands had enough magic on their own.

So, there he was, nervously shifting in his chair at a posh Italian restaurant in muggle London, looking out of place with his leather robes whilst the muggle patrons were decked in their finest suits. He did not choose the restaurant, and although his father took a big interest in all things muggles, William Arthur Weasley cared little for it. He prides himself in being a wizard and never understood how muggles could carry on with their lives never knowing magic. Fleur, on the other hand, her parents were politicians, and often had to interact with muggles in their duties dealing with the French Ministry of Magic. Thus, she was accustomed with the lifestyle of magic and non-magic.

He took a large gulp from his neat whiskey, sighing heavily. He had gone through two glasses in the past fifteen minutes just to calm his nerves and when he squinted his eyes at the sight of an approaching Fleur Delacour, he thought he saw a radiant white light glow around her being – or maybe he was just intoxicated to the point of hallucinating. As she sat down, he noticed how the skin of her delicate hands peeked underneath the baby blue Victorian lace gloves she wore to pair with her blue dress. Her fingers were bare except for one band of a silver ring set with small baguette-cut rubies on her right little finger. Her nails were polished and manicured to perfection. He found himself staring at her hands until she stretched them out to his to get his attention.

'Do you like Debussy?' He heard her say.

Bill wore a blank expression as he lifted his gaze from her hands to meet her dark blue eyes sparkling at him. 'Hmm?' He had no idea what she was talking about.

'The song playing now, it is by a French composer Claude Debussy, called The Girl with the Flaxen hair based on a poem with the very same name.' She spoke as she scanned through the menu.

'Flaxen hair?' He mused, finally choosing his appetizer and entrée and informing them to the waiter. He tilted his head a little as he studied her features. 'Ah! I see it now! Well, did you know him?' Fleur took a sip from her red wine and frowned her brows at his question. 'Well? Did you know him?' Bill repeated.

'Debussy?' She let out a tinkle of laughter in amusement. When she found that Bill did not follow what was amusing to her, she explained, 'Debussy died in 1918. Certainly, I must never have ever known him.'

Bill looked embarrassed, apologizing as he brandished another glass of whiskey. 'You said it was based on a poem? How did it go?'

'Oh, I can never attempt to translate it into English, it would be very difficult for me,' She admitted in her heavy French accent. 'But to summarize – that is what you say, yes, when you want to explain about something in short?'

Bill nodded his head, 'Yes, we say to summarize, it's like telling the gist of something, synonymous to the heart of the matter, the central idea, the main theme'.

'Gist? Ah, I like that word! Such a funny English word, this _gist_!' She repeated herself and he found himself laughing along with her. In fact, he soon came to discover how contagious her laughter was.

'Well,' She continued, 'The _gist_ of the poem is about a beautiful girl with flaxen hair and cherry lips who the poet finds himself loving and he describes her in the poem with romantic praises'.

'But does he end up with her in the end?' They thanked the waiter as he set their appetizers before them on the table.

'I do not know, maybe he does? It depends, if she will answer to his call of love,' She responded and gave a curious look at Bill. He thought it best to pick up his fork and knife and replace the conversation with his opinion on their meals instead. They ate quietly, only exchanging a word or two about menial things like work, the restaurant and how she found London to be quite _dull and very grey_ compared to the bustling bright lights of Paris.

The waiter then returned with their main course for the evening. Bill observed the movement of Fleur's delicate hands as they cut through her salmon steak with the knife, how they firmly gripped on the silverware and how each time she raised one hand with the fork to consume the salmon, he found his eyes tracing from her hands to the piece of salmon on it and how her lips closed around the fork as she ate. She indeed had the table etiquette of a woman with a noble upbringing. It was then that he noticed them, how cherry red her lips were. They were small, and the tip of her cupids bow protruded slightly. They were not a bright red colour, but more of a dark red with hints of blue. He licked his bottom lip as he observed her and when she caught him staring, he figured it must've seemed rude, so he avoided looking at her as they ate.

As the evening progressed, he invited her for some drinks at The Three Broomsticks. It was that very night when he found himself slowly falling in love with the Beauxbatons alumni.

He imagined what it would be like, to have her delicate hands buried underneath his, so he dared himself to stroll her into a dance one night in The Three Broomsticks. He still remembers how his breath hitched upon feeling her hand entangle with his – they felt like silk against his rough, calloused palms. He remembers how it was not how she fluttered her eyelashes at him in an obvious attempt at flirting that pulled the strings of his heart to the French witch. Her hands – the way she flicked a strand of her hair behind her ears with them, how she danced moving those delicate hands to some music she alone could only hear, how she holds her wand in her hand, these minute details that one would only seem to take such little interest in, absorbed him completely. From observing every movement of her hands, he slowly began to notice the rest of her – from her body to her mannerism, the way her voice changes in its tone when she speaks of something that excites her, Bill began to notice the very essence of Fleur Delacour. She may have delicate hands, but her personality was far from that. She was very opinionated, quite straightforward and at the same time, fragile yet strong.

Fleur shared with Bill how she had eternal love for her sister Gabrielle. Her voice had that tang of pain in her tone when she referred to her failure in the Triwizard task to retrieve her sister in the Black Lake at Hogwarts. She never forgave herself. Bill empathized with her, he himself is the eldest and would risk his life and limb for his own siblings. As she opened herself up to him, slowly, he did too. They dated for a year, and although his mother and sister did not fancy Fleur, since they thought she was a spoilt girl with too much froufrou, Bill did not share the same opinion. She was grace in body, kind in heart, strong in mind and loving in soul.

When Greyback had given him those hideous, terrible scars across his handsome face, Bill feared Fleur would leave him. He was accustomed to embrace a _come what may_ attitude to life with its ups and downs and although he knew Fleur loves him with all her blessed heart, he didn't think those scars gave him a devil may care rebellious look. Instead, he thought that they reflected a moment of weakness, that when he fought with Greyback he was not strong enough to defeat him. He compared himself with Fleur: she was so poised and elegant but when it came to dueling although she wasn't great at it, she was strong-willed. He thought Fleur may leave him because of that – that he was weak.

As always, Fleur surprised Bill and surpassed his doubts. Instead of backing away from him, she only pushed herself further into his life. He remembers how she challenged his mother that one fateful night when he returned with those new scars on his face. She had declared him to be brave because of the scars and that she was good-looking enough for the both of them when his mother doubted she would marry him because of the disfigurement. He remembers how she snatched the ointment from his mother's hands and proceeded to apply them on his wounds, her expression transfixed and curious. He remembers how those delicate hands encircled his cheeks, tracing the line of scars Greyback had adorned his face with. He remembers the softness of her fingers against his rough, bleeding skin as she dabbed the ointment on him and how her eyes were watering. He remembers the unspoken words that he could make out from those eyes, from her expression, and from how gentle those delicate hands caressed him. _Love_ , it was all he could read from her, it was all he could always feel with her.

He remembers how he had wanted to see her become his wife the moment he was sure he loves her, and so he bought her a ring. Each day, as he turned on the bed to face her in the early morning as he awoke, he would look at her peaceful sleeping figure and trace with his fingers the golden wedding band that sparkled on his wife's delicate hands.

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Beta: daronwyK Thankyou!


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